


Old Western

by StormyInk



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, I went horseback riding for my birthday so this happened, jeankasa - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:46:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1955592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormyInk/pseuds/StormyInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Birthday gift fic for Mustangsexual on tumblr<br/>I just wanted to write dumb cowboy!Jean giving Mikasa horseback riding lessons since I went riding for my birthday about a month ago.<br/>This isn't worthy of you Chi but I hope you like it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Western

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chinarai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chinarai/gifts).



Anyone else might have gotten lost.

The road was a dirt one, the entrance to it unmarked and shrouded by bent and broken trees, worn thin from the cold. She turned into it easily, dust billowing up on either side of her expensive car, following along the mostly dilapidated wooden fence until she entered—what she assumed was—a makeshift parking lot. She waited until the dust settled before stepping out, pulling her sweater shut tight as she walked towards the run down cabin just down the road. She eyed the wind chimes sparkling in the light breeze, the scuffs on the worn wooden planks of the porch, the screen door full of patches. It all seemed cliché enough, and Mikasa almost expected a woman to round the corner with a pail full of water she'd drawn from a well. The boards creaked as she stepped over them and she reached up and knocked twice, going still at the sound of a dog barking within.

And after a few minutes—still, only the dog barking.

She decided two knocks and the dog angrily yapping was enough to alert anyone, settling onto the rickety porch swing before the window. She spotted a small weathered notebook with a few crumpled sheets within it, the wind ruffling the brittle pages. She opened it carefully, eyes scanning the words atop:  _Sign here to sign in for your lesson._ There were only a handful of signatures, names she did not recognize and forgot as soon as she read them. She turned the page, finding a sheet completely bare of signatures, the words atop reading  _Sign here for lessons through the rest of the season._

She swung a little as she put the notebook aside, the breeze blustering by and chilling her bones. She should leave if no one was home but she'd scheduled her entire day around this, reluctantly cancelling a meeting, pushing aside her twisted gnarled thoughts of appointments and paperwork and pending phone calls and emails.

 _You need a break,_ Sasha had informed her, handing her a napkin with an address, phone number and a badly drawn map.  _The ranch my family owns is shut down during this time to recover from the holidays but my cousin Jean is out there. I called in a favor. He'll give you a free lesson and you can get some time out of the office, out of the city and maybe relax a little. Think of it as a late birthday present._

Mikasa didn't relax, however, didn't idle. But she had been wound up more than usual lately, a bit more restless, the meetings longer, more unbearable, the words on the sheet blurring together each time she attempted to read through them.  _Relax a little._ She'd found herself at the gym more often than not, wearing her body down machine after machine, lift, press, run, repeat—but the gray walls and metal machines seemed no different than the clinical surroundings of her office and the gray concrete of the city and she'd felt it press down on her chest and throat when she lay awake at night.

Perhaps a dusty ranch would be a good change. She'd change strappy heels for low sturdy boots, pencil skirts for worn jeans, silk blouses and eyeliner for cotton t shirts and a bare face and the change would give her a boost, a break through the haze of gray, remind her of her drive. Or perhaps it would remind her of a cabin out in the woods, of a home that had been hollowed through and through, of rain and blood on the window and rope burning into her skin and a cold she'd never been able to shake.

She shut her eyes, breathing deep and slow.

Perhaps the day could still be salvaged. She'd grab a cup of coffee, make a few calls, tell everyone she'd be late but she'd be in. She could pull a few strings, slip into a meeting or two and get a lot of work done and forget this entire thing.

She tightened the sweater around herself, pulling up her scarf just as she heard a man's shouts from within the house.

" _What the hell are you barking at, Cinder? What is it? Are we being robbed? Are you being murdered? Are you starving? Because you look pretty well fed to me."_ She heard him continue to curse and growl, footsteps moving towards the door. She sat still as the door slammed open violently, a tall, lean man with a skimpy towel wrapped around his hips stepping out. "What is it? If I rushed through my damn shower for nothing…" The dog—a huge gray mastiff—ambled towards her happily, tongue hanging and tail wagging. He put his head on Mikasa's lap, drool smearing over her jeans, his eyes shutting as her nails gave him tiny little scratches behind his ears.

"Who the hell…" He dwindled into silence as he looked her over, his hair and skin dripping, his hipbones jutting out above the tiny towel. He was muscled, lean, almost lanky, various scars and bruises marring his wet skin. His throat worked silently, drawing her eyes to his neck and shoulders, to his sharp collarbones, down across his hard stomach and the beginnings of a happy trail that matched the color of the hair atop his head. "Shit." His sharp brows furrowed, his mind slowly making the connection, seeming not to notice her wandering eyes. "Sasha sent you over, didn't she?"

Mikasa nodded, standing slowly, the dog winding around her legs in entreaty. "Are you Jean?" She said his name slowly, recalling how easily Sasha had pronounced it, the way she'd repeated it to herself later that day.

He swallowed, nodding and adjusting the flimsy towel around his hips when the dog nearly tugged it off. "Yeah. I thought the lesson was tomorrow?"

Mikasa shook her head. She had planned this day accordingly. She lived her life by a rigid schedule—she was never wrong, never late, seconds counting like hours in her mind. But this man had already thrown her off, made her pulse thrum with something hard and hot, watching as he knotted his long fingers in his wet hair in impatience.

"Right." He shivered when a cold breeze passed, and she saw the chills break over his skin, the ripple of the muscles in his stomach, a tic in his jaw working. "It's nice to meet you—Mikasa, is it?" He held out his hand, looking terribly self-conscious, like he was torn between wanting to stand tall and shrink in on himself.

She shook it, his skin damp and callused, his grip tight. "Yes." She released his hand, looking toward the cloudy sky. She could smell the rain already, the discomfort radiating off of him in waves. "We can reschedule for another day." She lied, knowing she'd never bother. "Sorry for interrupting your shower." She pulled her scarf up, already moving towards the steps. "It was nice meeting you, Jean."

"Wait!" He reached out—but didn't grab her, seeing the way she tensed. "I…" He struggled. "I'm already out of the shower and I haven't got anything better to do today." He shoved his dripping hair back. "You could stay. I'd like to show you a thing or two if you're willing."

Mikasa contemplated, wavering between leaving and getting back to work or staying to see if this trip out to the middle of nowhere could be salvaged. There was a part of her that was already at work, remembering all she had to do today. There was another part of her that kept looking at the stables just down and around, that was eager to feel a horse beneath her, to learn something new. She looked back to him, found his eyes on her hair, water slipping down his cheekbones and jawline. "Alright."

He looked away from her hair, back to her eyes, almost questioning. "Thank you." He smiled, the gesture sharp, almost charming, a stark contrast to the frown he'd worn just moments ago. "Sorry we had to meet like this. I really wasn't expecting you today. You wanna come in while I put on some clothes?"

She nodded, too cold to think twice. He ushered her—and the dog—in, quickly locking it behind him. "Feel free to use the bathroom. It's the second door on the left. If you want anything from the kitchen go right on ahead. I'll be right out in fifteen minutes."

She watched him waddle away, cursing when the dog nipped at the towel playfully and yanked, giving her an eyeful. He sputtered, pulling the towel back up, looking at her to see if she had been watching—but she turned to face the window, pulling the scarf up over her mouth and nose.

He spoke awkwardly, voice thin and tight and hopeless. "You didn't…see anything, did you?"

She shut her eyes and shook her head, memorizing the tattoo that had wound up his thigh and curved up onto his firm backside, imagining the blood mixing with ink as the machine ticked over his skin.

"No."

He disappeared down the hall.

She'd seen everything.

* * *

He looked oddly slimmer with clothes on. The man was all angles, from his pretty eyebrows, hard jaw and the knuckles stretching the fabric of his brown gloves. His hips were narrow, snugly clasped in dark jeans, his legs long and strong—and if she hadn't seen him nearly naked she would have almost thought him a bag of bones.

He smiled at her sheepishly as he stepped towards her, and if this were a country movie he'd be wringing his cowboy hat in his hands and she'd be wearing a dress. "I have clothes on now."

What a shame. "You do." She murmured.

"Sorry about the towel, earlier. I don't usually greet people wet, confused and naked." He looked amused at his own expense.

"I'd gathered."

He shuffled a little, his boots scuffing over the wooden floorboards, smelling like soap and leather and clean skin. "Let's start over." He held out his hand again, standing before her tall and a little hesitant. "I'm Jean."

She humored him, shaking his hand firmly. "Jean." She repeated, the name sitting odd on her tongue, knowing she'd remember it for a long time. "I'm Mikasa." Their hands still held on tight.

His thumb slid across her palm, tugging her hand up, his whiskey eyes never leaving hers as he brushed his lips over her pale knuckles, as if he did not notice the scars marring them. She felt that lick of heat curl up her stomach, the one that made her forget the time, forget that she'd left her cell phone in the car. "It's very nice to meet you." He breathed the words against her skin, shaky, his words laced with sincerity—an earnest she was not accustomed to in lovers. "You…" He stammered, a curse under his breath, slipping between her fingers. "You may just be the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on."

Mikasa watched as he pulled his mouth away from her hand, flexing her thin fingers at the absence of heat, as if she could coil them around his words and hold them. "Thank you."

He touched the back of his neck, skin flushed, looking like a schoolboy who'd just given his crush flowers, shuffling his boots in that endearing way of his. "Let's get your lesson started."

* * *

"So," He begins, trying his best to gather up any semblance of professionalism and dignity he can manage. "This is the saddle. I have it propped up down here so you can learn how to sit on it properly before we get you on the horse." He fiddled with the straps, odd hair mussed as he hunkered down. He seemed to struggle with tightening it, yanking off his gloves in irritation. "Shit." The saddle was on a tall bench and he had to bend to reach under. He jerked on a strap hard and it gave. "It's tightened securely. Let's get you on it."

She inhaled slow as she approached the saddle, flattening her palms against the inside curve of it, swinging one leg over, her thighs gripping each side of it comfortably. He watched as she adjusted, his eyes lingering on her hair and face the most—and it was the way men looked at the stars, at the moon, something they called beautiful, something they could not touch.

He cleared his throat, moving towards her. "Put your boots through here." He lowered onto his haunches, gripping the back of her foot, guiding her easily, his face just beside her thigh. "Heels down, toes up." She obeyed effortlessly, his touch a little clumsy as he straightened, running his bony fingers through his now dry hair. "Now you got to keep your back straight but not stiff." He reached out—but paused, looking like he was biting the inside of his cheek. "May I?" He asked, like a shy child, like a man who'd been raised well and loved easy.

She nodded.

He still hesitated but touched her nonetheless, his breath quick, his nervousness bleeding through. He slid his palm down her back, adjusting her posture. "Hunching will be—literally—a pain in the damn neck so try to sit up straight. But holding yourself as stiff as a board will have you hobbling for days and it works against the horse when you ride."

He paused when she leaned into his touch, when chills broke over her skin, and she wondered if he knew how forgetful it made her. "It'll make it harder on your both. You just need to find…" He brushed his hands over her shoulders, pulling them back, his voice softening, deepening. "The right position." He watched the way her breath quickened, the leap of her pulse, and she wondered if he'd be as watchful in bed. "The right angle." He grabbed her wrists, lifting them away from the saddle, slipping the reins into her hands, his warmth palpable. "Where it feels just right for you both."

She turned her head at his suggestive words, his face inches from hers. His eyes flickered over her features, looking at her like something within his reach now, those tawny eyes catching on every detail of her, mapping them. Her own gaze slid over his long lashes, his sharp jaw and cheekbones, at the small nicks on his lips cut by his own teeth, wondering if he'd let her make her own. She saw his intake of breath, knew she should look up, that she should try to disguise her interest. He dipped his head and she parted her lips—but he merely caught her eyes with his, his voice rich with a breathless amusement. "You're not a very subtle woman, are you, Mikasa?"

His breath brushed over her mouth, electrifying her, her grip on the reins slackening. She breathed in deep—then pulled away, remembering that she had a life beyond this dusty ranch, that she had a career and responsibilities and that she was  _responsible._

He seems surprised at the way she pulled away, blinking rapidly, and silence draws between them until she forces herself to speak.

"I'm not patient." She never has been, has never liked sitting still, never enjoyed idleness—and that restlessness has gotten her places. "Not romantically."

He laughed, straightening. "I'm pretty impatient myself." He reached up slow, brushing her hair away from her face, sweeping heat over her cheek with a brush of his fingertips. "Though something tells me I could take my time with you."

She caught his gaze, finds him giving her that peculiar look again, the one that makes her feel as if she is something unreachable, as if she is a mystery—the one that makes her feel as if she is simple, as if what between them is.

He pulled his hand away abruptly, brow furrowed as he realized the forwardness of his words. "I didn't mean it  _that_ way, you know. I'm an ass, but I'm not…I didn't mean it like…" He gestured helplessly.

She pulled her gaze away, touching her scarf in a lifelong habit. "I know."

Though she knew he meant it that way, too.

* * *

"This is Donna. You'll be riding her since you're a beginner and she's pretty lazy." He ruffled her blonde mane affectionately, slapping her shoulder as his voice nearly dropped to a coo, the way people spoke to puppies and kittens and infants. "Aren't you, girl?"

The horse pushed her face into his chest, as if seeking his embrace, his touch, and he gave them to her, and she couldn't help but think he'd make the best kind of father. He turned to look at her, his gaze questioning. "You ready?"

Mikasa nodded, moving forward when he gestured for her to pull up. She hesitated, seeing the way the horse eyed her, her tail twitching in what looked like nervousness.

"She's fine." Jean murmured, narrow eyes scanning about them, searching. "Here, let me get you a stool."

She shook her head, hooking her boot in and heaving herself up lightly. She swung her leg over, settling over the saddle comfortably, slowly relaxing when the horse stayed lax and happy. "I don't need one."

He looked up at her, his smile crooked, almost admiring. "This was the part where you struggled and I had to help you up."

She pulled her scarf up again, remembering the tattoo she'd caught a glimpse of. "I could help you, if you'd like."

His brows rose—and he snorted, blushing fiercely. "I'm sure you could." His skin flushed, and she remembered the way the color had crept down his chest, remembered the way the drops of water had clung to his skin. "Mama always said I was as smooth as sandpaper."

She felt her lips curl up, both at his admittance and the word  _mama_ , a funny feeling like fondness coming over her. "I've never liked smooth."

He started at her statement, blinking up at her—but she only urged her horse forward, leaving him silent and flustered behind her.

* * *

"You're a natural." His grin was a joker's as he watched her, eyes squinting against the cold dusty breeze. "With a few lessons I bet you could almost match the best of us."

Her eyes darted over him quickly as she circled her horse, Donna happily obliging her as she urged her to go a bit faster. She felt that familiar stubbornness take hold of her at the thought of learning how to ride as well as he could, that fixation that Armin had at times called unhealthy. He dug his boots slightly into his own horse, trotting and pulling up beside her.

"You sure you've never been horseback riding before?" His skin shimmered gold in the low sun, covered in sweat and brushed with a fine layer of dust. His eyes were the most startling, narrowed, sharp, the color metallic.

She nodded. Not unless he counted riding the ponies at the fair back when her parents had still been alive. She changed the subject, replacing the sudden ache in her lungs with a question that had been sifting within her mind. "How long have you been riding?"

Jean pondered, clicking his tongue. "Since I could walk. Or before, maybe, don't really recall." He shrugged, his lithe body moving effortlessly with every thud of the saddle. He rode like the horse was an extension of himself, without thought, the horse responding to every shift obediently, eagerly.

"Is this the only thing you do?" She kept her eyes straight ahead, wondering at the isolation of the area, of how disconnected it seemed from the world—from hers. Mostly, she wondered at how distant it made her feel from her usual routine, from the world she'd been so immersed in. "Take care of the horses and give lessons?"

Jean watched her intently, as if sensing her troubled thoughts. "No. Well, yes. Taking care and training horses is what I do." He scratched his head. "I don't usually give lessons, though. Actually, I hate giving them." He smiled at her a little, timid. "You're an exception, though."

She pressed her lips together to stem her smile. "Is this what you've always wanted to do?"

He licked his lips. "I've loved horses since I was a kid. But there were a few years where I was determined to get out of this hell hole. I wanted the big cities, and fancy cars, and suits. The  _good life_ , I called it. For a while, I had it."

His gaze was downcast as they cantered along the dirt road, Cinder happily running about, his thick paws eagerly pushing into all the muddy puddles he could find.

She prodded him with a few low words. "Why did you leave it?"

His brow furrowed, deep in thought. "I was miserable. The hours never ended. I could never relax, had business partners backstab me while I backstabbed others. I had people but no friends. It left a bad taste in my mouth and I started drinking pretty heavily. Every time I came to visit mama she told me I looked worn down to the bone—and I felt it." He touched the back of his neck. "I spent my vacation here at home. I realized how much happier I was out here. I realized I missed my family and that they had missed me, too."

Mikasa's gaze slid to the setting sun, the dark clouds beginning to blanket over them. Her work tired her but she would never give it up, never planned to. She thrived on it, was good at it, and the city was where Eren and Armin were—where her family was. "Family is…important."

He laughed a little, almost chagrined. "I must sound like a mama's boy."

She touched her scarf, knotting her fingers in the fabric. "You should be happy you still have her."

He stayed quiet at that.

* * *

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." He muttered. He squinted up at the sky as a crack of lightning flashed across it, the boom of it deafening. The horses whined nervously, shifting uneasily. "You're okay, you're okay." He soothed. He leapt off as soon as they reached the stables, tugging his horse in. Mikasa gripped the saddle and lifted her leg—but Donna whined, shifting backwards at the rumble of thunder.

Mikasa sat back down, trying to get her to stop moving. "Hush." She murmured, running her palm along her taut neck. "Stay still."

Jean moved towards them—grabbing the reins when another crack sounded, holding Donna before she could jump up, and Mikasa clung hard as she was nearly bucked off the saddle.

"Hey, hey, Donna, you're fine, you're fine. Jean's here. I'll take care of you. Come on." He murmured the words, luring the horse forward. "Atta girl." He praised. "I'll give you an apple if you stay still."

She watched as he fed Donna apple slices between unsaddling his own horse, saw the way his shoulders bunched with every bolt of white that broke across the sky. He did a good job of keeping his hands steady, of moving, his eyes darting up to the sky reluctantly. She tried to move herself off the saddle again—but at the shift of her weight Donna shook her head, backing away.

Jean settled her down again, feeding her another bit of apple. He slipped towards the side, holding his hands up for Mikasa. "Come on, let's get you down, quick."

She hesitated for a moment—but his hands gripped her waist snugly, making her pulse kick up again as his fingers dug in. He lifted her up then let her slip down, her body dragging against his, and she let her hands find purchase on his hard shoulders. She saw his breath catch at the sensation, felt her own blood stirring, her boots touching the ground after several moments.

She looked up and found him watching her, his eyes touching over her hair, her eyes and mouth, something akin to wonder written across his features. His fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt, knuckles pressing against her lower back, urging her tighter against him. She tipped her hips into his, their stomachs brushing, her pulse skittering as he dipped his head toward hers. Her lips parted as his brushed over hers, her fingers creeping up his neck, nails scratching over his scalp.

He murmured something before kissing her, teeth catching at her bottom lip, urging her mouth open for him. She drew him into her mouth, felt his hand cup the back of her head, cradling, knotting his fingers in her hair gently. The scent of him filled her lungs as he pulled her up against his chest, her thighs wrapping around him as she breathed in the scent of dirt and leather, of the rainwater beginning to pepper about them.

He stumbled, walking her backwards against the wall, her fingers still knotting in his hair, her other hand pushing his jacket away, her hand creeping down his hard stomach. She drank his gasp, his arm tightening around her body as his hips stuttered against hers—and then Donna was nudging between them, making them stagger.

"Ah, shit." Jean nearly dropped her but she caught herself on her feet, watching as he grabbed Donna's reins. "Alright, alright, I'll get the saddle off you." He began to undo the buckles, tugging at the straps deftly. He looked at Mikasa, chagrined and heated all at once. "You can go on inside, if you like." His eyes raked over her face, lingering over her reddened mouth, over her mussed hair, yearning written over him. "I'll be right in."

She raked her hair back, gathering her thoughts and pulling away. She jogged through the rain, not bothering to shield herself from it—and it soaked her through within minutes. She ran past the front porch, down the dirt road that had become nothing but a long puddle. She nearly slipped several times on her way to her car, ripping the door open and crouching in. She slopped her wet hair back, numb fingers fumbling for her cell phone in the cup holder.

She sighed when she saw the eighteen texts and twelve missed calls—most of them from Eren, the others from Sasha and Armin—and pressed the phone to her ear just as it began to ring. She could feel the cold down to her bones, gritting her teeth to keep them from chattering as she turned her car on.

"Mikasa!" She flinched slightly at his shout. "Mikasa, where the  _hell_ have you been? I've been trying to get a hold of you for  _hours_ and you  _always have your cell phone with you._ There's a storm—I thought maybe you'd crashed or Sasha's cousin had murdered you—"

"Eren," She was shivering, water dripping down her lashes. "I'm fine. I left my cell phone in my car. The riding lesson took longer than expected."

"Longer?  _Longer?_ It's been  _eight hours,_ Mikasa, what the hell—?" She heard him curse, arguing with someone beside him, a shuffling and a groaned out 'fine' as the phone was passed.

"Mikasa?"

Mikasa murmured tiredly. "Armin."

"Hey, Mikasa. Sorry about Eren—you know how he gets. I've been trying to calm him down—though to be honest I was a little worried, too."

Mikasa smiled, wiping her fingertips over her eyes, tasting the rain on her lips. "I'm sorry, Armin."

"It's alright. As long as you're okay."

"I am." She admitted, touching her drenched scarf, knowing she'd have to wash it as soon as she was home. "The storm is pretty bad."

There was a pause, and she heard the sound of his light footsteps, most likely attempting to distance himself from Eren to speak to her more privately. "How did the lesson go? Eren's in the other room."

Mikasa leaned back in her seat, spiking up the heater for a bit of warmth. "It was…good." She sounded unsteady even to herself.

She could hear his frown through his voice. "Good as in okay? Or good as in…" His voice lowered. "You're in trouble good?"

Armin had always known her terribly well. "I'm in trouble." She muttered.

Armin laughed a little, his voice rich with amusement. "Should we not wait up?"

"No, it's fine." She pressed her fingers over the vent, the warm air blowing over her icy fingers. "I'll drive home as soon as the storm lets up."

"Alright. Call us before you leave, okay? So we can time you."

"Okay."

There was a shuffle and shout on the other end, Eren no doubt having heard what Armin had said—but she hung up, turning her car off and slipping out quickly. She ran the entire way back, stomping up the steps. She tried to rid herself of as much muck as she could, bending down to remove the muddied boots completely instead. She stepped in, enveloped in warmth, removing her damp scarf and spreading it over a chair to dry.

Jean was in the kitchen in dry clothes, barefoot, a kettle on the stove. "Hey." He looked relieved to see her, his hair damp and ruffled. "For a second…" He was trying to keep his words light, trying to hide the insecurity—but with the shake in his voice and the way his brow furrowed it bleed through. "I thought you'd run out on me."

She stayed rooted to the spot, drenching the floor, unsure of what he'd expect of her next. "I went to grab my cell phone."

He handed her a towel, draping a second one over her head. "I was already calling myself an idiot for kissing you like I did." He rubbed it through her hair as she removed her sweater. "Listen, I…" He took her sweater from her, his skin dusted pink as he forced the words out. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I shouldn't have done what I did. I don't usually put my hands on—"

She reached up, slowly pulling him towards her, brushing her mouth across his, silencing him. He makes her forget, she thinks, makes her forget about the ticking of time, of the hum of cars on the streets, of unnecessary business dinners. She forgets the scent of paper with fresh ink pressed over it, of warm machinery, forgets the scent of starch, of the cleaning products—breathes in the scent of the storm, of leather and the dust clinging to them both. He threaded his fingers through her hair, his lips dragging over hers, savoring the split second before the kiss, his eyes mapping over her in hazy fascination. He looks at her like he's never quite seen anything like her, looks at her like he sees right through her and she is sure no one has ever quite looked at her that way, and she is not sure anyone ever will.

He kissed her finally, tipping her mouth up to push in deeper, as if he can pull the very air from her lungs, pull her heart out from her mouth—but as her hands press over his chest she feels the stuttering of his heart, as if it will leap up his throat, feels his trembles and the shaking of his bones and it makes her feel in control. His hands found her waist, tugging her closer—and she breaks the kiss, pulling in a badly needed breath.

"I don't mind." She spoke plainly.

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. "You're not a very subtle woman, are you, Mikasa?"

"I'm not very patient." Her fingers found the buttons at the front of his shirt, undoing them at a pace that belied her words.

"I'm pretty impatient myself." He tugged her shirt up, exposing her belly, his mouth brushing over her lashes, her nose, over the curve of her ear, his voice low. "Though something tells me I could take my time with you."

* * *

When Jean wakes up she is gone and he's alone.

His bedroom window is open, the scent of damp, sun warmed earth enveloping him, of the greenery that has come alive with their drink of rainwater—but the space beside him is empty, the sheets cold, and he feels heavy as he rises. He shuffles up and goes about his morning routine, searching for any lingering trace of her, peeking out the window as he brushed his teeth.

Her car is gone.

He breathes slow, recalling the feel of her skin beneath his palms, the softness beneath his fingertips, the way she'd tasted. He could remember the slip of her black hair over his knuckles, how quiet she'd been, the few sounds she'd given him branded deep in his bones. He could feel the sting her nails had left over his back, eyed the small new bruises marring him, recalling if she'd made them with the heat of her mouth or harsh grip. She'd given a particular amount of attention to the embarrassing tattoo on his thigh and ass cheek, tracing it with a fingernail, making him try to shift away—until her mouth had slipped over his stomach and lower still. He remembered waking in the middle of the night with his arm slung over her sleeping and bare form, pulling her in closer, burying his face in her hair and thinking he wouldn't mind waking up to this everyday and falling asleep to it every night.

He walked out onto the porch with a mug of hot coffee in hand, letting Cinder run out to go to the bathroom. He sat himself on the porch swing where he'd first saw her, nearly knocking over the notebook beside him. He caught it, cursing when his coffee sloshed over the rim—and found a fresh signature and phone number on the list for riding lessons for the rest of the season, his thumb passing over her name tenderly.

_Mikasa Ackerman._

If this were a country movie, Jean thought, this would be a book she'd left behind and there'd be a flower pressed between the pages.


End file.
